by Lauren Royal
Jason leaned to hand the groom the comb. "I reckon I'll be staying the night here, after all." Fetching his pouch from his coat pocket, he pressed a silver coin into the man's age-spotted hand and patted the horse's flank. "Keep an eye on him for me, will you? His name's Chiron. Appreciate the chat."
He lifted the portmanteau and headed from the stables. Now he knew why the Gothards had it in for their brother.
But what they had against him remained a mystery.
It surely felt good to be clean, Caithren thought. Even if she'd had to fold her knees up to her chin to fit into the inn's small wooden tub.
She tipped the wee bottle of oil she'd pressed from Leslie's flowers, pouring a few more precious drops into the bath. Scooping a palmful of the lukewarm scented water, she smoothed it over her shoulders.
It smelled like Scotland. Like home.
When the water grew cold, she donned the clothes she'd brought for riding: soft brown breeches and a coarse white shirt, castoffs outgrown by Da's stable lad. After plaiting her dark-blond hair, she piled it atop her head and jammed Cameron's hat on top.
There was no mirror in her room, but she hoped she looked enough like a lad that the men downstairs would leave her alone. She'd had her fill of English men tonight. Just her luck, the scum brothers would be staying at this inn. And in search of women.
She ducked out the door, then turned and went back in to paw through her satchel and find her father's pistol. It was an ugly thing of cold, mottled steel, made for naught but utility. It felt heavy in her hands—heavy and surprisingly reassuring. Bless Cameron for making her bring it; how had he known how alone and out of place she'd feel so far from home?
Remembering how Da had done so, she made sure the pistol was loaded, then half-cocked it and stuck it in the back of her breeches.
She dug her plaid out of the satchel to cover it. Unlike the English cloaks, a plaid was neither masculine nor feminine; Cam's looked exactly the same as hers. With any luck, she might pass.
As an afterthought, she tucked both the miniature of Adam and his letter into her breeches pocket, then headed downstairs to the taproom, doing her best to swagger like a man.
The paneled room was lit by oil lamps burning cheerfully on each of the round wooden tables. Pewter spoons clinked on pewter plates, and the buzz of leisurely conversation filled her ears. Homey scents of meat pie, fresh-baked bread, and brewed ale hung in the air. Her stomach growled.
She made her way to the taproom's bar. "Mr. Brown?"
"Yes?" The innkeeper looked up from wiping the counter. His brow creased, as though he were wondering how she knew his name. So he didn't recognize her; her disguise must be working.
She felt better already. "I'm looking—" She cleared her throat and deepened her voice. "I'm looking for my brother, an Adam Leslie. He was staying with Scarborough this week past."
"Adam Leslie?" The man set down his fistful of rags and wiped his hands on the front of his breeches. "I don't recall a man by that name."
Caithren's heart sank. Adam was fond of frequenting public taprooms, so she'd been hoping the innkeeper would know where he'd gone, what route he might have taken. Maybe she wouldn't need to travel all the way to London.
The man ran a hand across his bald head. "What does he look like?"
"Tall, fair, longish blond hair…" She dug in her pocket and brought out the portrait. "Here," she said, holding forth the wee oval painting. "I'm wondering if he told anyone where he was headed next."
Brown took it and considered, frowning. "I'm sorry, but I recall no man named Adam Leslie, nor anyone who looks like this picture." He handed it back. "Is it a decent likeness?"
She nodded.
"I have a good head for people, sir…er, madam?"
"Aye." Caithren sighed. Her disguise wasn't working after all.
Mr. Brown piled some discarded trenchers on a tray and lifted it to his shoulder. "I'm sure I would have remembered your brother had I seen him."
Blast it, another lump was rising in her throat. She'd never been a crybaby, and she didn't intend to take up the practice now. She pulled the letter from her pocket and unfolded it, scanning the worn page. "He was traveling with two other gentlemen, Lords Grinstead and Balmforth. Might you have seen them?"
"I'm afraid their names aren't familiar, either."
"Oh." A burst of laughter in the background seemed to mock Caithren's distress. Her hunger had faded…although she could very much use a mug of ale.
"I'm sorry," he repeated.
"It's no fault of yours." Slipping the letter and painting back into her pocket, she glanced about. She couldn't face the other travelers eating and socializing in this room—she'd spent the best part of a week with some of them already, with more forced togetherness promised to come.
And what if Mrs. Dochart came downstairs? The old bawface didn't know she was back yet—with a quick escape and any luck at all, she could spend one night alone in her peaceful, solitary room.
She turned back to the innkeeper. "Might you have some supper sent up? Room three."
"Certainly, Miss…Leslie, is it not?"
"Aye. Thank you."
"No trouble a'tall." With another appraising glance, he disappeared into the kitchen, and she turned to head upstairs.
"Thank you kindly." Jason pressed a coin into the serving maid's hand and settled back with his ale. Taking a swallow, he watched her sway from his shadowed corner into the lamplit center of the taproom. A nice sway she had, too, but he had neither the stamina nor inclination to pursue her right now.
He rubbed his tired eyes. God knew he wasn't good for much more than people-watching this evening.
He downed a second gulp as a boy, tall for his age, turned dejectedly from the taproom's bar and made his way to the stairs. The lad was overly pretty, way too thin, and young—not even shaving yet. Strange to find him in a taproom alone, but perhaps his folks were waiting upstairs. Jason hoped so—he knew what it was like to be young and alone, and he wouldn't wish it on anybody.
Massaging his sore shoulder, he took another sip. It was aggravating to find himself so worn out, weeks after the injury. But having pushed himself to the limit to beat the Gothard brothers here, he was relieved to find he'd managed it.
Obviously they weren't overworking his horses. When they arrived, tomorrow or the next day, they'd be in for a rude surprise. He'd get the answers to his questions, and this chapter in his life would be closed.
Or almost. No word had come from Ford as to the identity of the man he'd killed.
He took another sip of his ale, watching the boy start up the bare wooden steps. Two men came down and met the lad halfway, blocking his progress on the staircase's tiny landing.
Geoffrey and Walter Gothard.
Jason bolted up, his heart beating a wild tattoo.
The poor lad began visibly shaking. He tightened the blue and green shawl he had wrapped about his shoulders, squaring his slender frame. "I know who you are," he told the brothers bravely in a distinct Scots accent, his voice high as a girl's with tension. "You won't get away with your wicked plans."
The wean sounded like he meant it. Halfway there to intervene—not to mention capture Geoffrey Gothard once and for all—Jason froze. Was the boy after Gothard as well? There was, after all, the hundred-pound reward he'd offered—an absolutely vast sum to someone like this lad.
The boy took a step back down the stairs, then suddenly reached beneath the plaid wool and pulled something out, brandishing it daringly.
The soft glow of metal spurred Jason into action. No matter how bone-weary he was, there was no way he could allow a lad to become Gothard's next victim. A wild bellow rose from his throat as he drew his rapier and reached the stairs in four running strides. No doubt drawn by the racket, Geoffrey's eyes met his and went wide with recognition. The bastard turned and bolted up the steps.
Shouldering the boy aside, Jason yelled, "Send for the authorities!" and reached to snag Gothard by the ar
m. He whipped him back around, then deliberately dropped his sword—another death was not the way to end this. Instead, his fingers closed around Geoffrey's neck as the sword slid clattering down the stairs. Walter tried to sidle past, but Jason shot out a foot and tripped the younger Gothard, who thumped down, whining loudly.
Still holding Geoffrey by the throat, Jason held Walter hostage with a boot pressed into his gut. A sickening crunch and a short, sharp cry of pain drew his attention to the bottom of the stairs. He looked down, startled to see the boy had fallen sometime during the scuffle. Even worse, Jason's rapier lay dangerously nearby, and a bright splotch of blood stained the lad's shirt.
He lay still as death, face up amidst the tangle of his unwrapped plaid shawl. His hat had fallen off…
No, her hat.
Hell and furies, it was a woman! A woman with long, tawny plaits. When Jason half-turned to get a better look, his fingers loosened.
Walter squirmed from beneath his foot and stumbled down the stairs. "It's the ghost of Cainewood!" he yelled as he reached the bottom and ran for the door.
"Dunderhead!" Geoffrey rasped, one hand flying up to cradle his abused throat. Murder in his eyes, he dealt Jason a mighty shove that sent him to his knees and clunking down two steps. While Geoffrey pushed past to follow his brother to freedom, Jason righted himself and made his way down the stairs after them.
But at the bottom of the steps, the woman moaned softly at his feet. With a regretful glance at the door, he knelt by her side. Blood still trickled from the cut on her shoulder—a cut from his sword that had tumbled downstairs in her wake.
A negligible injury, but his fault nonetheless.
"Wake up!" Jason shook the woman's other shoulder, but her eyes failed to open.
He couldn't help but gape at her. How in God's name had he ever thought she was a boy? She was a woman, full grown, with a woman's bosom that heaved beneath her man's shirt. Smallish, perhaps, but a definite bosom nonetheless.
He rubbed the back of his neck. Why, that sorry excuse for a disguise wouldn't fool a living soul…well, perhaps only someone as single-minded as he'd been these days past. The lingering pain from the pistol wound must be muddling his brain.
He rose, shoved the rapier back into his belt, and bent to try to rouse her once again. No luck.
A pair of dusty shoes strolled into his vision and stopped by the woman's head. Jason straightened. "Did you send someone to fetch the authorities?"
"The magistrate's in Lancashire. Visiting his sick mother."
Typical, Jason thought in disgust.
The innkeeper, a wiry, balding man, rubbed his nose. He eyed the woman with sympathy. "She took room three. If you wouldn't mind bringing her up?"
"I expect I owe her that, at least," Jason agreed gruffly.
He grabbed the woman's pistol off the floor—the oldest, ugliest gun he'd ever seen—and lifted her into his arms. A limp bundle she was: slim, soft, and smelling of flowers. Feminine.
So why the boy's clothing?
It hit him like a bolt of summer lightning: she was after the reward.
He stared at her, picturing Geoffrey Gothard already miles down the road.
Damnation.
The whoreson had gotten away again, and all because of an incompetent Scottish reward hunter who would certainly bungle the capture—if she didn't get herself killed outright.
Jason had laughed at the ridiculous rumors, but the joke was on him…because here was Emerald MacCallum, right in his arms.
CHAPTER EIGHT
With a grunt, Jason laid Emerald on the bed, then lit a candle and set it on the plain wooden table beside her. Rubbing his aching shoulder, he stood staring at her chalk-white face.
The flickering flame cast a sense of movement he knew was only an illusion. He lifted one slim wrist and let it drop back to the bed. Limp and deathly still.
Just like little Mary.
A strange hollowness opened in his gut. He reached to feel for the pulse at her throat, relieved to feel it warm and steady beneath his fingers. After drawing a restorative breath, he untangled the plaid shawl. As he tossed it over the spartan room's only chair, the woman's soft floral scent wafted to his nose.
Though he was no stranger to undressing ladies, he couldn't remember ever stripping one he'd never laid eyes on before. The room seemed suddenly short of air. He drew off her shoes and dropped them on the planked wood floor, then rolled her stockings down shapely calves and off her small, arched feet.
He'd never noticed a female's feet.
Clearly it had been far too long since he'd had a woman. Of late, his responsibilities to the estate and as a father figure to his siblings allowed precious little time for pursuing personal pleasures.
Ignoring the unwelcome twinge of desire, he hurried to find the damage from his sword. He loosened the laces of her shirt, eased it down, and brought the candle close to her shoulder. The cut was small and shallow, the blood already clotted against her creamy skin.
His heart calmed somewhat, then raced again as he caught himself studying her half-exposed breasts—silky, bare breasts that looked as though they were made to fit in the palms of his hands. With a muttered oath, he set down the candle and tugged the shirt back into place, noticing a pendant nestled in her cleavage.
He lifted her head and drew off the necklace. Warm from the heat of her body, a rectangular green stone shone in an ornate gold setting. The simple link chain had seen much wear. Candlelight glinted off the stone's smooth, rubbed surface.
An emerald. Emerald MacCallum.
He set the pendant on the bedside table with a little click that seemed to reverberate in the quiet room. A soft moan from the woman lifted his hopes and drew his gaze back to her.
Emerald looked sweet and unspoiled. Like a dairymaid, truth be told, since she'd plaited her hair to conceal it beneath her hat. She wasn't at all like he'd pictured the fabled Emerald MacCallum, but then, it weren't as though anyone knew what she looked like. Drawings on broadsides were of the outlaws, not their pursuers.
But the thought of a petite woman like this capturing outlaws was laughable. The breeches left little to the imagination, and he couldn't help but notice she was thinner than the current fashionable ideal. Someone needed to feed this woman. Guilt lodged in his stomach as he rubbed a thumb along her cheek, glancing at her long, full lashes and wondering what color her eyes were.
Her wide mouth looked kissable.
With a huff of impatience, he jerked his hand away and rolled her onto her stomach, then wrestled the thin quilt from beneath her and settled it over her back. Gingerly he explored her head for the lump he knew must be there, given that she'd been knocked unconscious. He winced when he found it, hard and large and warm to the touch. The tight plait on that side couldn't be comfortable.
He set to undoing it to relieve the pressure. Long and shimmering, hair every hue of blond and brown slid between his hands. When the first side was loose, his fingers lingered at the place where her straight, white part ended at the nape of her neck. Baby fine hairs glimmered gold in that spot.
No matter that the woman was Emerald MacCallum, the downy little hollow looked innocent and vulnerable. Anger fired up. At himself, at the world.
He'd thrown down his sword to avoid bloodshed, and now someone else was hurt.
His fingers absently loosed the second plait while he seethed at the whole situation. Though he tried to block a vision of poor little Mary, the effort only led him to picture Emerald in the same condition. The thought made him shake.
And those bastards had gotten away. Again. He rose and paced around the room, lighting more candles and cursing himself.
He should have gone in with loaded pistols and blade at the ready, prepared to handle the brothers once and for all, with no thought to fairness or avoiding violence. Father would have done it that way.
"Father would have handled it," he muttered in self-disgust and walked across to the window.
CHAPTER NIN
E
Hearing a voice, Caithren shifted on the bed, her head in a painful fog.
The voice had been a dark, harsh whisper. She wasn't sure whether she'd actually heard it or if it had been part of her disturbing dream. She tried to move, but her head hurt. She moaned, struggling against the nausea.
Swift footsteps approached. "You're awake, then?" It was the same man's voice, but rich, comforting, and laced with relief.
Cait tried to roll closer to the sound.
He held her in place with a large, warm hand. "For God's sake, be still." Tinged with worry, his voice wasn't quite as nice. "You bumped your head but good."
She was lying facedown with her nose mashed into the pillow. She couldn't breathe properly.
The man's hands gripped her shoulders, gently helping her turn. "Are you dizzy?" he asked, moving to arrange her aching head on the pillow.
She intended to say aye, but when he came into view, her answer got lost somewhere between her mind and her mouth. Clear green eyes—too beautiful for a man—were studying her. His shadowed jaw and fine tanned features were framed by glorious, long raven hair that was wavy and prettier than her own. Bent over her as he was, the ends threatened to tickle her cheeks.
He looked frustrated and concerned. And she had no idea who he was.
"Can you talk? Emerald, are you all right?"
"Emerald?" she echoed. She supposed she was all right, if she didn't take her aching head into account. Her gaze was riveted to a faint dimple in the stranger's chin. There was only one thing she was certain of in that moment. "I-I'm not Emerald," she managed.
"Oh?" Beneath a narrow black mustache, his chiseled lips curved, but not in humor. "You're Scottish," he said, as though that explained everything.
"You're English," she countered, batting his hair from her face. He straightened, and his spicy scent wafted away, leaving her head a little clearer.
The room swam into view. She lay beneath not the dusky rose canopy of her bed at home, but a utilitarian beamed ceiling, the plaster cracked and at least a century older than Leslie Castle.
